


Infinite

by the_diggler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bunker Fic, Dream Sex, Eventual Fluff, Fallen Castiel, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Time Travel, Trueform, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diggler/pseuds/the_diggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam dies, it's as if Dean dies with him. Newly human, Castiel searches for a way to help Dean live beyond his grief, and what he finds is completely unexpected, but also makes more sense than anything in his entire existence – He was always meant to be Dean's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite

**Author's Note:**

> This is for balder12, for doing such an awesome beta job for my Dean/Cas Big Bang 'The Story of You and Me.' She requested trueform!Cas for her birthday, AND I MISSED IT, so here it is *hugs* My infinite thanks.

 ~

_Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.  
\-- W. B. Yeats_

~

  
When Sam dies, it’s as if Dean dies with him. It’s like seeing Dean do an impersonation of a zombie, or worse, an impersonation of Sam when he was soul-less. It looks like Dean, sounds like Dean occasionally, but really, he’s nothing more than an animate shell of flesh and bone, hollowed of the spark that gives him life.  
   
The last time Castiel sees even a glimmer of that spark is the day he finally arrives at the bunker, three weeks human - tired, hungry, and still flaked in dirt from when he fell. He’s had to hitchhike to get there, sleep out in the cold, scrounge for food out of dumpsters - so all he wants to do is eat, shower, and sleep for a week. But the first thing Dean does is bring him to Sam’s room, straight to the lifeless body of his brother, laid out on the bed.  
   
“Is there anything you can do?” Dean asks, his voice too quiet, too broken.  
   
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he replies, extinguishing Dean’s last hope.  
   
There is nothing left for Dean to try. He’s been to doctors, faith-healers, voodoo priestesses, reapers – even Death himself could not reverse the process of Sam’s destruction. Which made a demon deal pointless, even if Sam hadn’t made Dean promise not to.  
   
Kevin tells Castiel afterwards, that Dean had held on anyway, nothing but distant hope keeping him going as he kept vigil by his brother’s side, barely eating, barely _moving_ , as Sam’s life ebbed away before his eyes. By the sound of it, it was a slow, agonizing process, and nothing like the peaceful deathbed Sam Winchester deserved. But Dean stayed beside him, until finally, out of sheer exhaustion, he’d passed out at Sam’s bedside… and woke to an empty bed, the ground shaking beneath him.  
   
When the tremors finally stopped, Dean found Crowley screaming and railing against his chains in the bunker’s dungeon, completely cured… with Sam’s body lying beside him.  
   
Sam had finished the job.  
   
He’d made the ultimate sacrifice, and closed the gates of Hell, forevermore.  
   
And when Castiel eventually finds his way back to the bunker there is nothing he can do, but help Dean give his brother the hunter’s funeral Sam requested.  
  
In attendance is Kevin, Garth, an effusive woman called Charlie, a girl named Krissy, and her two companions. Garth insists on saying a few words before the pyre is lit, as a goodbye to Sam… But Dean doesn’t say a thing. And as Sam’s body is consumed by salt and fire, there is no light in Dean’s eyes but the reflection of the pyre’s flames.  
   
~  
   
Garth leaves shortly after the funeral, as do the young girl and her friends. Charlie stays for as long as she can, but eventually she returns at the behest of her new girlfriend. Kevin stays, working on the Angel tablet in the hopes of finding some kind of solution to the chaos being wrought by legions of suddenly fallen Angels, walking the earth.  
   
Dean leaves them all to their own devices, barely speaking a word to anyone, not even a ‘goodbye’ when they leave. There are weeks that follow, where the only time Castiel hears Dean’s voice, is when he cries out in the middle of the night, plagued by nightmares. By day, he is a walking hollow, devoid of care or purpose or any light of life _.  
  
_ It isn’t long before Dean finds the alcohol Kevin hasn’t gotten to yet, and begins filling himself up with that instead. Castiel finds him swaying in the doorway of Sam’s old room, staring into its empty blackness, bottle in hand. And then the drink starts talking.  
   
“You know, when Sam was a baby, my parents never let me hold him. I kept asking, but… He was ‘too little’, or I was ‘too young’… They didn’t trust me with him.” Dean takes a swig from his bottle. “So when Dad put him in my arms that night and told me to run, I just knew something had to be really, _really_ wrong.”  
   
Dean sucks in a shaky breath. “He was my responsibility, Cas,” he says, voice cracking over the words, already rough with disuse and the burn of alcohol.  
   
“That doesn’t mean it’s your _fault,_ ” he replies, attempting to soothe as he reaches out for Dean’s shoulder.  
  
Dean takes another drink, looking away from the dark doorway of Sam’s room. Castiel has lost much in his millennia-long existence, especially in the past few years, but he cannot imagine what it must be like to lose your _only_ brother, your only _friend_ for much of your violent and isolated life, and the last of your already too small family. The mere _idea_ of it makes him ache with pain.  
   
But if the angels’ true mission really is to protect what God created, Castiel will begin with Dean.  
   
“Perhaps you should get some sleep,” he suggests.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean snorts, “’cause _that’s_ been working out so well,” he mutters. But he allows himself be guided to his room nonetheless, and doesn’t protest when Castiel helps him down onto his bed and pulls the sheets up around him.  
   
Dean’s eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow, but Castiel doesn’t leave, pulling up a chair next to Dean’s bed and settling in for the night.  
   
~  
   
“Sam!” Dean calls out in his sleep, “ _SAM!_ ” he cries again, and Castiel rushes to Dean’s side.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, hoping to wake him, but he doesn’t hear. “Dean!” Castiel tries again, squeezing Dean’s shoulder gently, but still Dean thrashes in his sleep, calling out for his brother. “ _Dean!_ ” Castiel shouts, shaking him harder, and still Dean doesn’t wake.  
   
Castiel keeps trying, calling out over and over and shaking Dean as hard as he dares. Then suddenly, Dean lunges awake, eyes wild as he grabs Castiel by the throat and squeezes.  
   
“Dean!” Castiel gasps, scrabbling at Dean’s hands, but Dean’s eyes are savage and unrecognizing as his grip tightens.  
   
Castiel is overpowered. He is human now, and doesn’t have the strength to fight Dean off anymore. Pretty soon Castiel is unable to even call out, his already too limited human vision turning black around the edges. It’s just when he starts to realize that he could die, just like that, at Dean’s hands… when Dean finally lets go.  
   
Castiel collapses onto the side of the bed, swallowing down great gulps of air that burn his throat but balm his lungs.  
   
“Jesus, Cas, are you okay?” Dean hovers above him, hands fluttering awkwardly in the air between them, reaching out but then abortively pulling away, as if he’s afraid to touch again.  
   
“I’m alright,” Castiel rasps, massaging the pain in his throat.  
   
“What the hell are you doing in here, Cas!” Dean shouts at him then, “I could have killed you!”  
   
“I… I was watching over you.” Castiel replies, still heaving for air.  
   
Dean barks an incredulous laugh. Shaking his head in disbelief, he collapses back onto the bed, staring speechlessly at the ceiling.  
   
Castiel pulls himself together just long enough to heft himself up on his wobbly legs and collapse back into the chair by Dean’s bed.  
   
Still Dean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell him to get out or that it’s “creepy” or that he doesn’t need watching over. And Castiel knows that even if Dean _did_ want him there, Dean would never admit to it like this, without even a biting comment to spare. Dean lets him stay because he just doesn’t care.  
   
If that’s what it takes, then so be it.  
   
~  
   
Dean’s nightmares persist, but after having been so harshly reminded of his new mortality, Castiel has to take measures to protect himself when waking Dean. In Dean’s calmer moments, Castiel will reach under Dean’s pillow to remove the blade, or gun, or whatever else may be lying there in wait, so that Dean can’t use them later in the midst of his nightmares. But it doesn’t protect him from Dean himself. Even if he uses his foot to try and shake Dean awake, Dean is able to twist him around into some kind of arm-lock or sleeper-hold or some other death-grip. And even though Dean always manages to come back to himself just in time to let go, it’s always deathly sobering.  
   
But if it means Dean starts managing to get some rest, then it’s worth it.  
   
Then one day, while Castiel is exploring the many nooks and crannies of the bunker, he comes across another solution – African dream root. It’s so simple, and so elegant, Castiel doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before.  
   
Well, perhaps it’s because he never would’ve _had_ to resort to such a solution before. As an angel, he could’ve seen into Dean’s thoughts or dreams whenever he wanted. Though out of respect for Dean’s wishes, he only did so when necessary.  
   
Castiel decides this is one of those times it’s necessary.  
   
He waits until Dean goes to bed to brew the mixture. It’s an easy matter of lifting a stray hair from Dean’s pillow to add to the broth. Then he settles into his station beside Dean’s bed, and lets himself drift off the sleep.  
   
It’s not an easy thing to do for Castiel. Unless he is utterly exhausted, he hasn’t quite learned the trick of shutting himself down for the night, the way humans have learned to since birth. Most of the time he can only manage a light doze, which is how he’s been able to hear Dean call out in his sleep.  
   
This also means Castiel has rarely dreamed since he’s been human as well.  
   
It’s such a strange thing when it occurs, such a unique level of consciousness, halfway between human and divine. Of course, dreaming itself is a result of his newfound humanity, but when he dreams, he doesn’t _feel_ human. He feels himself again, formless and free, and full of celestial glory.  
   
It’s in this state that Castiel hears Dean crying out again.  
   
“ _SAM!_ ” Dean screams, and Castiel speeds towards the sound. In a matter of moments, Castiel finds himself in a familiar place. Or rather, a familiar _pit_.  
   
It’s Hell.  
   
And Castiel already knows exactly where to find Dean, barbed with hooks and strung up in chains, screaming desperately for a brother who can’t hear him.  
   
Castiel dives towards him, wrapping him up the memory of his grace, and raising him from perdition, once again.  
   
~  
   
He takes Dean to the first safe place he can think of – the dock, by the lake, where he once found Dean peacefully fishing in a dream not so many years ago. But in the haste of their escape, they end up tumbling in a heap on the grass beside the lake instead, Dean landing on his back with a winded ‘ _oof!_ ’ as Castiel hovers over him worriedly.  
   
“Dean, are you alright?” he asks, and again he experiences that strange juxtaposition of angel and human, having no actual vocal chords to produce the sound of James Novak’s voice.  
   
“Cas? Is that you?” Dean squints up at him, taking in his formless light, and even under Dean’s gaze Castiel can feel himself transforming into something more recognizable, something with shape, and a face to focus on. He begins to feel small again, like he does in his human body. But when he moves he still feels like his old grace – weightless thought, light and feathers instead of arms, wrapped around Dean, stroking his temples soothingly.  
   
“You came for me!” Dean blurts, the tears from his torture now streaming down his face in rivulets, safe from the heat and fire of Hell that would dry them as they fall.  
   
“Of course,” Castiel murmurs, the tips of his feathers brushing at the corners of Deans eyes. He will always come for Dean, whether Dean calls for him or not.  
   
Dean turns his face away then, and Castiel recognizes the look on Dean’s face – the shame and self-loathing, the belief that he is unworthy. Castiel can almost see Dean’s soul, stewing darkly behind Dean’s eyes.  
   
“My mom…” Dean mumbles, “When I was a kid, every night before I went to sleep, she used to tell me angels were watching over me,” he says, and Castiel thinks he sees the churning in Dean’s soul begin to still, comforted by the recollection of safety and love.  
   
“I will always watch over you, Dean,” he says, hoping to help settle the mire of Dean’s emotions, and to his relief Dean’s soul begins to calm. Castiel starts to unwrap himself from Dean’s body, moving off of him.  
   
“No, wait!” Dean murmurs, eyes whipping back towards Castiel and staring up at him in awe. Or, behind him to be exact. At the feathers of his grace, flared out like wings, now that they’re no longer twined around Dean.  
   
“Cas, I can _see_ you!” Dean whispers, his face full of curiosity and amazement. Castiel begins to feel the same things mirrored in his own grace, that Dean can safely see something of his real form, with his own eyes, here in this dream state. He stretches his wings out so Dean can see them more properly, and Dean gasps at the movement.  
   
Dean’s soul begins to swirl again, different from before, and suddenly Castiel feels a strong pulse of… _arousal_ come from underneath him _._ Then Castiel feels hands, _Dean’s_ hands, trailing over his ephemeral form and making it more tangible with every touch, molding him into the shape of a man.  
   
He finds himself becoming heavy with the weight of it, leaden with his own responding arousal as he sinks atop of Dean, the pressure and friction between their bodies creating a spark between grace and soul, like electricity.  
   
It shocks him, in every sense of the word. He jolts awake in a panic, and flees from Dean’s room.  
   
~  
   
Dean doesn’t say anything about it. For all Castiel knows, Dean slept the whole night through, undisturbed by the strange of events of the dream, or forgot the entire thing upon waking. And Castiel finds himself so unsettled by either conclusion, he avoids Dean as much as possible the next day, stunned and confused by the whole predicament.  
   
He still feels the shock of Dean’s arousal, buzzing under his skin, crackling with a power that reminds him of what it’s like to be filled with grace. And yet he feels himself responding to it like he never would have when he was made of grace and God’s love. As an angel, he experienced the world from the inside out, his human vessel merely a shell, encasing his true being. Whereas now, as a human, he is beginning to feel things in reverse, from the outside in, the shell itself creating a reaction that seems to resonate deeper. It makes him feel both full and empty all at once - the most connected to his human body he’s ever felt, and yet the most incomplete.  
   
It’s overwhelming, and mystifying, but he can’t even go to Dean for help trying to understand it or what to do about it. The very thought terrifies him as well.  
   
And yet, that night, when he hears Dean calling out in his sleep again, he simply can’t ignore it. He finds himself returning to Dean’s room, shaking Dean awake, at his own peril.  
   
Thankfully, Dean doesn’t choke him. Not that night, or the night after. He just wakes up and lays back down again, silently staring at Castiel watching over him, until he falls asleep again. And despite everything, Castiel is relieved. It’s a vast improvement. Eventually Dean barely even wakes up at all. All it takes is a simple touch for Dean’s thrashing to stop, to chase the nightmares away until he is still and peaceful again.  
   
Soon Castiel starts to see the effects during Dean’s waking hours as well. He loses the haggard look about his face, the hollowness in his cheeks, regaining the health of uninterrupted sleep… And yet, his eyes still remain lifeless and dull. Nothing but emptiness left behind where his brother used to be. Castiel begins to wonder if he will ever see a spark to fill them, ever again.  
   
The fact is, Dean may not wake up screaming anymore, but he still _has_ the nightmares. And Castiel will sit by Dean’s bedside, every night for the rest of Dean’s life if he has to, but he wishes there was something more he could do.  
   
Then he sees a movie about a time-travelling robot-assassin "terminator." It’s absurd and excessive, but again presents an idea so simple, he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before. Perhaps since he’s become human, his thinking has become more limited as well, having had to readjust to the constraints of a physical body moving through linear time. But humans have been known to be capable of time-travel as well. Specifically, Men of Letters were capable of it. And he is in their bunker now.  
   
Castiel begins to search for a spell. Something like the blood spell Henry Winchester used to reach Sam and Dean, but not quite. Castiel doesn’t want to risk disrupting the lives of his vessel’s family again. He just wants a brief glimpse – to see if Dean can find a way to live beyond his grief – to see if there’s something, _anything_ he can do to help. He needs to do that for Dean. Regardless of whatever… _feelings_ he may be experiencing.  
   
Eventually he finds something that may do the trick. It doesn’t explain the mechanics of how it works. It simply says, ‘To see your future self.’ And that’s just what he’s looking for. Perhaps he might be able to see the outcomes of certain decisions and actions. Or even better, actually _speak_ with his future self.  
   
All the ingredients he needs are stored in the bunker, so once again, he waits until Dean is asleep before mixing the potion. Then he goes to take his seat beside Dean’s bed, drinks the broth, and chants the spell.  
   
~  
   
When Castiel opens his eyes again, he is standing in what looks like Dean’s bathroom, wearing a different t-shirt and track pants than before. When he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, he immediately notices more lines around his eyes, and several white hairs shining at his temples, indicating the passage of years.  
   
Castiel frowns at his reflection. It seems the spell has placed him _inside_ the body of his future self. Which complicates things. It would’ve been simple if he’d been able to find his future self and talk with him for a while, regardless of the paradox it may have presented. But now he has to re-assess how direct he can be about gathering information, or if he has to play along and pretend to be his future self in order to do it. And who knows how many years have passed? How much time he’s had to acclimatize to life as a human? It would be difficult for him to fake his way through that, as he is now.  
   
But he is here, and he has a purpose. There’s no avoiding it now. Castiel takes a deep breath, and exits the bathroom.  
   
Dean’s bedroom is dark, but Castiel can clearly see Dean’s bed in the bright slash of light from the bathroom door. Dean seems to be sleeping peacefully, sprawled out on his back, so Castiel makes his way over to the chair by Dean’s bed as quietly as possible. He heaves a sigh as he slumps down, staring at Dean and weighing his options. He could explore the bunker for information, but he has a feeling that would be about as useful as walking around the bunker in his own time would be.  
   
He’s stumped. It seems he has no other option but to wake Dean up to glean information from him directly, and hope that by some miracle Dean might be more forthcoming in this time than he usually is.  
   
But when he reaches over to wake Dean up, Dean suddenly turns towards him in his sleep, and murmurs his name.  
   
“ _Cas!_ ”  
   
Castiel pulls his hand away, blinking in shock.  
   
“ _Cas!_ ” Dean calls out again, whimpering, and Castiel finds himself instinctively leaning forward again, before stopping himself at the last second. He doesn’t know how the Dean of this time will react to him – if he’ll lash out or choke him again, or something worse. But Dean is _calling_ for him, and he has to do _something._  
   
But then he remembers that Dean is _dreaming_. And Castiel suddenly realizes that Dean’s subconscious will probably be a lot more forthcoming than an awake and defensive Dean.  
   
Castiel reaches out to collect a stray hair from Dean’s pillow, then rushes to the kitchen. To his relief it’s still well-stocked, complete with African dream root and all the other ingredients for the dream-walking potion. Very little seems to have changed in that respect at least. He mixes the brew as quickly as he can, and drinks it on the way back to Dean’s room, swallowing down the last gulp just as he reaches Dean’s bedside.  
   
The next moment, Castiel finds himself looking at Dean’s lake again. The sun is shining, shimmering across the leaves in the trees and the ripples in the water, but its heat is neither sharp nor harsh. Instead the sun glows warm, softening the edges of everything he sees.  
   
The dock is not far away, but Dean is not on it. However, on the other side of the lake Castiel sees a floppy-haired boy playing with a dog, his parents sitting together nearby. They all look familiar. They all look happy. A warmth blossoms within Castiel at the sight.  
   
It’s then when Castiel hears Dean’s voice, somewhere behind him.  
   
“ _Cas!_ ” Dean calls out so soft, it’s almost a sigh, and Castiel turns towards the sound.  
   
He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing at first. It seems like a mass of light and color, feathers and limbs, tangled on the grass. As he gets closer he hears a whispering sound coming from it, and he catches the word “always” repeated every now and then amidst the hushed susurrus of sound.  
   
A little more closer, and Castiel realizes what he’s looking at. _Himself_. His own dream-version of his celestial form – feathers like prisms reflecting the light of remembered Grace.  
   
But the limbs tangled in the feathers are not his own. They are _Dean’s_. Castiel is wrapped around him – they are wrapped around _each other_ – just the way they were the first time they landed together here on this grass. And it’s his _own_ voice, murmuring soft and low in Dean’s ear, telling him things like, “I always come when you call,” and “I will always watch over you,” and “I was always meant to be yours.” Things he remembers telling Dean in the past, in the waking world, and some things that are entirely new.  
   
But Dean’s _face_ when Castiel tells him these things – so unguarded and open, soaking up Castiel’s words like the warmth of the sun. And in Dean’s eyes, his soul burns so hot and bright, Castiel thinks he must be seeing ecstasy.  
   
It’s been so long since Castiel has seen any spark in Dean’s eyes at all, let alone this steady _flame._ And he must make some kind of noise or movement in his shock, because Dean’s eyes suddenly whip towards him, widening in recognition.  
   
“Cas?” Dean smiles. And because it’s a dream, Dean doesn’t find it strange at all to see a second version of him there. The first version simply dissolves into the air as Dean shifts his attention. And then Dean is standing up, coming towards him and crowding him against the trunk of a tree.  
   
By all rights, he should pass straight through the bark of the tree’s trunk. But as soon as Dean reaches out for him, he becomes something solid enough to be touched. By the time his back meets the tree, not only does he have a body, but limbs and feathers to wrap around Dean’s body in return, enfolding Dean as easily and naturally as if he were accepting a part of himself.  
   
“Cas!” Dean sighs contentedly, nuzzling into him, and again Castiel feels himself becoming more solid with every touch, flesh underneath Dean’s hands. It’s a strange parallel to when Castiel first pulled Dean out of Hell and remade Dean’s body with his grace. Now it is Dean remaking _him_ , shaping _him_ into a man. And as Castiel once breathed life into Dean’s lips, now it is Dean who begins to create him anew, with his kiss. His entire being fills with it, whole and real and no longer just a shell, separate from what he was before.  
   
“Dean!” he gasps, suddenly understanding breathlessness in an entirely new way, along with the irrational belief that the only solution is the very thing that causes it. Their lips meet again. And again. Sparks created with every connection that shock through their bodies, around them and between them, the static of their friction flickering and pulsing until Castiel feels he is a storm of lighting and incandescence, wrapped around Dean.  
   
He is rushing towards something. Towards an indescribable _more_. He thinks he may fly apart with it, but for the look in Dean’s eyes, holding him together – a steady burn that cannot be quelled by Castiel’s tempest. He feels the most _alive_ he’s felt since he fell, and yet the most _transcendent_ at the same time. And as he looks into Dean’s eyes – Dean’s very soul – Castiel has a moment of clarity, the likes of which he hasn’t experienced since his insanity.  
   
In that moment, he understands why he disobeyed Heaven’s orders, time and time again. Why he is always brought back from oblivion, only to rebel once more.  
   
He never belonged there.  
   
He always belonged _here_.  
   
“I was always meant for this,” he whispers against Dean’s lips. “I was always meant for _you_.”  
   
Perhaps it is a clarity that can only be experienced in delirium, because the next moment he is burning up, ignited and consumed by the heat in Dean’s eyes, the shock of it so powerful it reverberates through him like thunder.  
   
The force of it jolts him from the dream, and the next thing he knows, he is in the dark of Dean’s bedroom again, collapsed against the side of the bed with Dean gripping his arms and shaking him. For a second Castiel thinks Dean might choke him again, until he hears Dean calling his name.  
   
“Cas, hey, did you fall out of bed or something?” Dean asks, voice full of confusion and concern.  
   
Castiel blinks up at him stupidly, still reeling from the dream.  
   
“Come on, get back in,” Dean says, pulling him up towards the bed and lifting the sheets to let him in.  
   
Castiel wordlessly lets himself be guided, stunned as Dean draws him close and embraces him, warm under the sheets.  
   
“I was having my favorite dream about you,” Dean murmurs, leaning in to kiss him. A small sound of surprise escapes his throat, but Dean doesn’t notice, as it quickly turns into a moan, coaxed from his lips by the expert movements of Dean’s mouth and tongue. He is dizzy and breathless again by the time Dean pulls away.  
   
“Hang on a second, I gotta go clean up,” Dean chuckles, gesturing at his crotch before getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom.  
   
Castiel looks between his own legs, barking a shocked laugh when he realizes that he has spent himself as well.  
   
He must leave, before Dean discovers he is not the Castiel of this time.  
   
Laying back down on the bed, he whispers the incantation to end the spell.  
   
~  
   
If Castiel found it difficult to be around Dean after the first dream, it is near impossible now. He knows what he’s feeling now, and what it means. What this electric buzz under his skin is, and what it could be. Months later, he can still remember the events of his trip to the future, in _vivid_ detail – Him and Dean, _together._  
   
He wants it so much.  
   
But the Dean of his time is still so far from the Dean he saw in the future.  
   
At the very least, Dean’s health continues to improve. He drinks less, and begins to eat better, cooking actual meals instead of eating them out of a box or a can. He spends less time alone, and more time in front of the TV with him and Kevin, watching Spanish soap operas and movies about supposed galaxies far, far away. He even begins to help Castiel learn human skills, like how to cook and shoot a gun.  
   
And at the very least, Castiel is glad to see these improvements.  
   
But the more time Dean spends with him, the more Castiel wants him. Wants that Dean who held him and kissed him, made him _feel_ with his touch, and experience a clarity of bliss he’s never known before. But more than that, he longs to see that _look_ in Dean’s eyes again.  
   
Even though Dean may smile sometimes now, it never reaches his eyes.  
   
It’s a terrible mockery of the man Castiel once knew. The man Castiel knows he can be again. The man Castiel sees in his own dreams now – laughing and smiling and eyes alight with such _feeling_ _._  
   
And even though Castiel knows the future, he just doesn’t know what he can do to _make_ it happen, or if he should do anything at all – Whether it is predestined, or only one of many possibilities. For all he knows, simply having this knowledge has already set him on a path divergent from that future.  
   
Such are the reasons why movement through time was so heavily restricted in Heaven.  
   
But he is human now, and perhaps because of that he has become impatient, selfish in the face of such a limited lifespan. He remembers what Meg’s true face looked like, her soul, bitter and broken with heartache long-buried under a black and contorted shell. He wonders if his soul will look like that one day, twisted with longing. Or if he even has a soul. If the space where it’s supposed to be is already filled up with Dean.  
   
He finds himself pondering these questions often at night, standing in the bunker’s Observatory, watching the stars shine in the heavens as he waits for Dean to fall asleep. It usually takes an hour or so before Dean’s nightmares begin, and Castiel always makes sure to find his way to Dean’s bedside before that happens… So he is surprised when one night, Dean comes looking for _him_.  
   
“Hey,” Dean joins him beside the telescope, his voice rough-strewn and his hair sticking up in all angles from his pillow.  
   
“Are you having difficulty getting to sleep?” Castiel asks, frowning in concern.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “I woke up, and…” he looks at Castiel and sighs. “I just couldn’t relax,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, feeling somehow responsible.  
   
“What are you looking at?” Dean asks, looking up at the night-sky above. “Feeling homesick?”  
   
“Not at all,” Castiel replies. “I find the heavens much more beautiful, when I’m looking at them from down here,” he smiles.  
   
Dean drops his gaze then, their eyes meeting over the view-piece of the telescope. “Are we ever going to talk about it?” he asks quietly.  
   
Castiel frowns. “About what?”  
   
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, his jaw tensing. “About how you crawled into my bed that night a few months ago? Like you freakin’ belonged there or something? And then kissed the _hell_ out of me?” he grits out.  
   
Castiel blanches in shock.  
   
He hadn’t considered what happened to his future-self when he’d gone and inhabited his future-self’s body. Now he knows.  
   
“I apologize, Dean,” Castiel replies, flinching as the expression on Dean’s face twists at his words.  
   
“Why? Was it a mistake?” Dean asks lowly.  
   
“No,” Castiel responds softly. “I was always meant to be yours.”  
   
It’s then when it happens, when Castiel sees it in Dean’s eyes…  
   
The first glimmer of hope.  
   
“Don’t apologize then,” Dean says, licking his lips as he steps around the telescope. “Just do it again already,” he whispers.  
   
So Castiel does.

  
_~ fin_

  
  
from Wikipedia:

_**Lightning**_ is a dramatic natural example of static discharge. The flash occurs because the air in the discharge channel is heated to such a high temperature that it emits light by _incandescence_ (see below). The clap of thunder is the result of the shock wave created as the superheated air expands explosively.

_**Incandescence**_ is the emission of light from a hot body as a result of its temperature. The term derives from the Latin verb _incandescere,_ to glow white.

 

 


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